


Near, Miss, Repeat

by Panny



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: Developing Relationship, M/M, Missing Scenes, TAZ: Amnesty - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:15:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21825022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Panny/pseuds/Panny
Summary: Date: ██████Mission Progress: LimitedAgent Status: In Love
Relationships: Barclay/Agent Stern (The Adventure Zone)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 163
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Near, Miss, Repeat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yasaman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yasaman/gifts).



Agent Joseph Stern was a man of details. He noticed things – more accurately, he noticed everything. The minute details, the things that wouldn’t matter to anyone else and might not even matter to him in the long run. All of these he observed, all of these he catalogued just in case they were important. He had pursued a career that rewarded a detail-oriented mindset. He had smiled, tight-lipped around the colleagues in other departments who had elbowed him at the water cooler and made half-sincere jokes about red string and newspaper clippings and cork boards. The Unexplained Phenomena task force did have a cork board, but it was for flyers about the community picnic and passive aggressive notes about cleaning out the fridge on Fridays. The only strings that had ever bound Stern’s work were the metaphorical kind (which were not often red but the tape that pinned them usually was) and all of it fit neatly within the confines of a memory stick and a single manila envelope, kept secure within his briefcase.

His briefcase currently lay at the end of his bed in his room a floor above him. Its absence was the clearest indicator to any who really knew him that he wasn’t working, at least not in any formal sense. He was off the clock, as it were. He had armed himself with a highlighter and timeworn back issue of The Lamplighter, intent on pursuing some light reading for curiosity’s sake and maybe filing away a few more of those little details that might one day add up to an equation he knew how to solve. It was not going well.

As a rule, Agent Stern was not the kind of man who indulged in self-deception. He was persistently honest with himself, whether or not that honesty was fully welcomed. It was in the spirit of honesty that he acknowledged that he had read the same paragraph about the giant two-headed turtle of the Monongahela River three times and still couldn’t remember what it was supposed to eat. He carefully closed the zine and lay it on the arm of the couch before capping the highlighter with a satisfying snap. Then he allowed the source of his distraction to become the focus of his attention.

It was the faint yet still too artificially bright smell of lavender soap and the way the hinges on the kitchen door groaned every time it opened and the persistent arrhythmic clatter of cutlery being shifted about. Stern shifted his weight into the arm of the couch, inclining his head just slightly, and tried not to appear like he was eagerly watching the door when the hinges’ lament heralded Barclay’s entrance into the main sitting room of Amnesty Lodge.

Barclay was washing the dishes. Not particularly notable, a rather regular activity for the time of day actually, but it was Stern’s job to notice things anyway. Presently, he was noticing that Barclay’s sleeves were rolled up – past the elbows so that the material bulged. He continued to notice that Barclay had very nice forearms – firm, tan, and an appealing amount of hairy.

No, Stern was not in the habit of lying to himself and so he was well aware that he was developing something of…of an infatuation. He shouldn’t have been surprised when the feelings made themselves known. Barclay was a nice enough looking man, a gentle soul wrapped in a rugged woodsy exterior. And he had a beard and wore a lot of plaid, which apparently qualified as being Stern’s Type©, if he had to have one. And while it might not have been without its inconveniences, it wasn’t particularly unprofessional or likely to get him in trouble with the higher ups. It wasn’t like Barclay was under investigation. In most circumstances, he would have said something by now.

Stern didn’t move from the couch, socked feet chilled through the wood floor, the creases in his starched pants pulled off center by tension between his body and the polyester he sat on. Movement was hardly necessary when Barclay walked right on over and made to take his breakfast bowl, leftover cereal bobbing to the top to “ooo” at him as if in mockery, with nary a word.

“I could have brought that to you,” Stern said, mostly to have something to say. He cleared his throat and had to grip the arm of the couch not to reach to adjust the tie he wasn’t wearing. Barclay didn’t quite glance away (would have had to be looking at him to do that), but his head shifted enough that his fringe fell into his eyes. His hair was getting rather long; Stern wondered if he’d cut it soon. Illogically, he hoped he wouldn’t.

“It’s no problem,” Barclay said, words a little too delayed to be a natural response. And, oh, Stern was cataloguing it all – the tick of his jaw, the way his thumb pressed a little too hard into the side of the bowl and made the milk ripple, the way his voice reached for pleasant nothing and was an octave off. “You’re a guest. And you’re busy.” He said the last word firmly, like it gave him strength.

He made Barclay nervous. It wasn’t that surprising; FBI agents made a lot of people nervous. At least half the time, they were doing so intentionally. Problem was that at some point after following his case to West Virginia, Stern had placed Barclay on a very special, highly exclusive list that existed only within his mind. A list that he daren’t write on paper where any wandering eyes might read it. A list of people who had nothing to fear from Stern because, whatever their secrets might be (and they certainly had them – everybody did), they were worth more than the weight of carrying them. The list would never be terribly long, couldn’t be unless he meant to walk away from the Bureau for good, but about a third of it now lived in Kepler, West Virginia. He wasn’t all that uncomfortable with the notion.

A lot of good folks lived in Kepler. Kind folks. Folks who cared about one another. And they had secrets, oh did they ever. The residents of the lodge and their frequent visitors especially – they weren’t even that good at hiding them. Somehow it almost made it easier to trust them. Barclay may have been squirellier than most but it wasn’t the heady scent of cheap dish soap that made Stern’s stomach dance a little jig whenever there was less than two feet between them. Maybe not an honest man but a good one nonetheless. And didn’t everyone want a good man?

“I’m not particularly busy, no,” Stern said. Barclay had already risen to his feet, bowl in hand. He almost winced at his own delay. He’d never considered himself slow-witted but a little crush apparently did all sorts to his tongue.

Barclay looked for a moment as if he would walk away but he didn’t. He stood almost uncomfortably still, back wound taught, breath notably slowed – bated. Odd. “The search not going well then?”

Stern raised an eyebrow, the response was calculated but his surprise was genuine. “Did you expect that it would be?”

Barclay gestured his chin in the vague direction of the forgotten copy of The Lamplighter. “Who knows. Folks believe all sorts.”

Stern smiled, thin and tight and insincere. The zine suddenly felt like a ridiculous thing to have on him, the kind of thing he would have hidden under his mattress when his parents deemed him too old to indulge in childish fancies. “You don’t have to pretend for me, Barclay. Whatever you’re thinking, I can guarantee it’s nothing I haven’t heard before.”

Barclay looked almost affronted. “Who said I was pretending?” He sighed, his hand made a short, aborted movement, like he’d wanted to gesture but remembered that he was holding the bowl at the last second. “Look, what you do might be surprising – not exactly what I thought fell under the FBI’s purview. I mean, I’ve heard of Area 51 –”

“Different department.”

“Right, sure. Point is –” Barclay started, stopped, looked faintly frustrated, skin creasing between the eyes “–the point is, lots of people believe in impossible things and maybe some of them have it wrong, but I doubt it’s all of ‘em. We don’t know what we don’t know.”

“Well said.” His voice was even, even if his throat felt dry. There was a tremor in his hand. His stomach was engaging in what felt like an enthusiastic Charleston. And then, because it had to be said, he added: “Thank you.”

“Yeah, well.” Barclay shrugged, slightly awkward, chest still somewhat inflated. “Even if I didn’t get it, life’s too short to feel bad about what you care about.”

Stern hummed vaguely but filed the words close to his heart. “I was thinking I should get to know the area better. The weather’s been nice; it’d be good to get out there, put my feet to ground.”

“Good on you,” Barclay said, heartwarmingly impassioned still, sloshing the cereal milk as if to toast his decision.

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind walking me around the forest. When you have the time.”

The surprise was apparently too much for the milk, which finally slopped over the edge, splattering Barclay’s jeans with undiscouraged “ooo”. If Stern found it cute, he didn’t let his face betray the thought. “I–”

“When you have time,” Stern repeated cordially, reopening his copy of The Lamplighter. It might not lead to the progress he wanted – for any of it – but a nature walk in good company would be nice.

The West Virginia air was meandering toward cold with slow, faltering steps. Some days Stern’s breath already fogged the air in front of him, some days even a light jacket felt oppressively warm. His wardrobe, city-made and shaped for office work, was ill-equipped to deal with this inconsistent in-between season. He hardly let that stop him, gazing in appreciation at the gold-red rustle of leaves that capped the forest, waiting for his guide by the front steps of the lodge.

When the screen door finally banged closed, Barclay was already too late to be punctual but not so much that it bore mentioning. Instead, Stern merely smiled and raised a hand in acknowledgement. “Nice day,” he said.

There was a pause before answering in which Stern felt the weight of being looked over. He tried not to shiver under the attention. Barclay snorted, so soft it was almost a sigh. “If you say so. We’ll see how you feel after a few miles.” Stern frowned slightly, picking at the sleeve of his wool overcoat. “Your shoes,” Barclay clarified, gently.

“Oh,” Stern said, blinking down at the shiny patent leather. “It’s my oldest pair. Will it be a problem?”

Barclay’s face made a complicated expression, some internal conflict seeming to rise within him. After a moment he seemed to sag, shaking his head, lips pursed just slightly. “It’s fine, you’ll live. Come on.”

Stern followed at what felt like a respectful distance, eyes wandering between the woodland scenery and the way Barclay’s back shifted as he walked. _It’s a shame that it’s one of the cold days_. The thought flitted through Stern’s head and was immediately countered as the chilled air gave reasonable cause for the flush of his cheeks. He forced his eyes to move to where his shoes stuck in the mud, wet earth soaking into his socks through the top and sides. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Barclay,” he said. “I’m sure this isn’t how you wanted to spend your afternoon.”

Barclay glanced at him briefly over one shoulder, pace slowing in a way that may or may not have been wholly deliberate, until they could almost walk side by side. “S’fine.” He shrugged, smiling a little ruefully. “Honestly, I’d rather you ask than go wandering by yourself. Monongahela’s not especially dangerous per se, but that doesn’t mean it’s a good idea for folk to hike through by themselves if they’re not going to stick to the trails.”

“I could have asked Ranger Newton.” The thought had even crossed his mind more than once; who better to help him get the lay of the forest than a forest ranger? “But he seemed –”

“Busy? Yeah, he’s, uh, got a lot going on.” Barclay’s smile grew more strained and Stern did him the courtesy of pretending not to notice. Just like he pretended not to notice that something required the constant attentions of lodge staff, a forest ranger, a stage magician, and a conspicuously shady museum proprietor, though he couldn’t imagine what that would be. “I just hope you don’t hold it against me if the tour isn’t terribly interesting.”

It was Stern’s turn to smile, brief but genuine. “Do you know what I thought when I first arrived in Kepler, Barclay? I thought: damn, but that sure is a lot of trees. More trees than I’d ever seen in my whole life. I’ve lived in the city since the day I was born and I just didn’t expect –” He stumbled briefly, toes catching on a tree root, forcing Barclay to stop and steady him with a hand on his arm. Stern laughed a little, the sound ghosting lightly on the fog of his breath. Barlcay raised an eyebrow.

“Trees?”

“Trees,” he agreed.

Barclay paused for a considering moment, eyes roving slowly over his face. And then: “Anyone ever teach you to chop wood?”

**Date:** ██████

 **Mission Progress:** Limited

 **Agent Status:** Warm

* * *

Saturday Night Dead was…a revelation. Stern’s relationship with Ned Chicane was tense at best, defined by the mutual unspoken agreement to stay out of each other’s way. Even holding the majority share of power in the relationship didn’t mean that Stern was entirely comfortable with the whole affair – threats and ultimatums were not the way that he preferred to do things. But whatever he thought of the man on a personal level, there could be no denying that Ned was a great showman. And he had impeccable taste in cheap horror schlock.

Stern’s laptop gave the lodge’s seating area a suitably eerie glow, just bright enough to give the shadows life. It had become something of a routine to wait for the seclusion of the witching hour and then curl up with Reptilicus or Zaat to punctuate the week. Appropriately, tonight’s feature had turned out to be the 1975 made for tv movie Curse of Bigfoot.

He felt the couch shift next to him and curiously popped one earbud out as Barclay settled. Even in the dark, his facial expression was impossible to read as anything but annoyance. “Where does he dig these up?”

“The airing rights are cheap, I’d imagine.”

“The effects are worse than the last one.”

Stern shrugged. “This is the good part. They were mostly just wandering around before. Climbing mountains.” His brow furrowed. “I’m not even sure the monster’s really supposed to be Bigfoot.”

There was an amused gust of breath, closer than he expected. Stern shifted a little, tried to give Barclay better access to the laptop’s small screen. “Is that who it’s supposed to be?”

The two of them settled into companionable silence. It felt oddly nostalgic considering he had no comparable point of reference within memory. At one point his hand slipped, unthinking, landing on Barclay’s wrist, right above his hempen bracelet. Unintentional though the gesture was, Stern’s heartbeat quickened as he let his hand stay in place. And then Barclay shifted, drawing his arm away as his hands folded in his lap. He might not have noticed. It might not have meant anything.

Stern kept his hands carefully to himself for the rest of the night.

**Date:** ██████

 **Mission Progress:** Limited

 **Agent Status:** Uncertain

* * *

Avoiding someone who lived in the same building as you shouldn’t have been easy but, as far as Stern could tell, Barclay was making a real go of it. To be fair, Stern liked to think that if he was really looking for him, he’d have been able to track him down no problem. The problem was that he’d had enough three AM thoughts to thoroughly talk himself out of the idea.

“You misread a situation,” he told himself firmly, highlighter squeaking over the Lamplighter spread out in front of him. “Suck it up. It happens.” And it did – he knew it did. He just still wished it hadn’t, is all.

If he was lucky, maybe Barclay was wishing the same damn thing. It wasn’t like he was planning on leaving Kepler anytime soon; there was no reason for things to be awkward.

Stern’s highlighter made a sudden sharp jerk, scoring across the page as something…something _screamed_ from a floor below him. He pushed his chair back so hard and so fast that the scrape of it over the floor cut through the room around him. He hardly had time to worry about whatever damage he might have done to the hardwood, though, heart beating in double time as his feet pounded toward the cellar door, hand half reaching for a gun he almost never carried. He almost didn’t see it opening in time, narrowly avoiding a blow to the face as he pinwheeled his arms to keep from tripping on his own momentum. When Barclay stepped out onto the landing, all the saliva in his mouth seemed to dry up along with half the words.

“Barclay,” he said, swallowing with an audible click. “I, uh, what?” And then he noticed the blood on Barclay’s sleeve. “Holy _shit_.”

Barclay’s eyes quickly followed Stern’s gaze and his hand snapped over the stain, as if to hide it. “It’s not mine,” he said quickly. He winced. “And it’s not how that just sounded.”

Stern felt a cool, professional calm wash over him, dressing him like a suit even as his teeth creaked against each other and a muscle in his jaw jumped. “I think you’d better tell me how it is.”

“Animal rescue,” Barclay said. There was a pause where his lips pressed together as if the words had just escaped before the rest followed them in a rush. “I mean, there was an accident earlier and Duck – you know Duck’s a ranger? ‘Course you do, what am I saying – anyway Duck needed some help getting the, uh, the animal back to the lodge. We, uh, have an animal infirmary in the cellar and, uh, Duck didn’t want it to die, so I – I was helping.”

Stern chewed the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. “What’s the animal?”

“A goat.”

“A…goat?”

“From the mountains.” Barclay tripped over the word ‘mountain’ like even he was surprised to have said it.

Stern sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead. “I wish you wouldn’t lie to me, Barclay.”

“Fake as it sounds, I didn’t actually make any of that up.”

“Can I see the goat?” Barclay didn’t move from where he was bodily blocking the door, spine stiff and uncomfortably straight. “I thought not. You know there’s not much stopping me from getting past you if I really wanted to, right?”

Barclay lifted his jaw, eyes narrowing as he scanned Stern’s expression. “But you won’t,” he said, at once challenging and uncertain.

“You’re right, I won’t.” Stern let himself slouch, hands sliding into his pockets. He let himself appear smaller, deescalate the situation. “I wouldn’t,” he clarified, “but if you’re in trouble, I’d like to help.”

Slowly, Barclay unwound, posture easing, chin dropping. He still didn’t move from in front of the door. “I’m not in any trouble. This isn’t about me.”

Stern ran his tongue over his teeth. That one wasn’t a lie. “And Ranger Newton?”

“He’s handling it.” A note of uncertainty there but still not a lie. Stern nodded.

“I know it’s probably not easy for you folks, living with the FBI under your roof. I didn’t think much about it when I first got here, but I do understand it. I really do.” He made a point of catching Barclay’s eye, holding it steady, not letting him pull away until he’d said his piece. “I get the sense that a lot of folks here have spent a lot of time running from something. I’m not looking to give them cause to start running again.”

"And what about Bigfoot? What if he's running too?" Spoken light but false, too tense to quite pass off a joke.

"From me, you mean? It's possible but I hope not." Stern rolled his shoulders, hands still seated inside his pockets. "Lonely way to live, don't you think?"

**Date:** ██████

 **Mission Progress:** Limited

 **Agent Status:** TBD

* * *

The stars filled the sky above him, glittering like suspended shards of ice. He was on the ground and had no recollection of how he’d come to be there. His eyes roamed slowly over his surroundings, taking in the bare branches of the trees and the high slope of soil that rose out of the earth next to him. His leg throbbed in a distant way that was hard to care about when the rest of his body trembled with cold. He should probably have been trying to get up. He’d do it in a second.

When Stern opened his eyes he was on the ground, snow and mud pressing into his cheek. His brow furrowed. How did he get here? He tried to move, feeling suddenly certain that he didn’t want to be lying on the floor and then there was pressure, pressing him back down. He tried to fight against it, but it was hard and he was tired and maybe the pressure knew better than he did anyway.

After what could have been seconds or maybe decades, a familiar face swam into focus, blotting out the light of the stars. Barclay’s brows were furrowed, mouth tight; he looked worried. Stern felt badly about it – he hadn’t wanted Barclay to worry.

“You with me?” Barclay asked. The words were clear and deliberate and Stern could just about follow them. He tried to say something in answer but his lips didn’t want to move and his tongue felt stupid and thick in his mouth. Whatever he managed to say, it made Barclay frown harder and swear a blue streak. “What hell were you thinking, going on your own like that?”

Stern blinked, trying to think. The answer seemed important for some reason, but trying to chase it only seemed to make it flee from his grasp. He tried to rise again, frustrated by his own brain’s lack of co-operation. Barclay hurriedly hushed him, running his hands almost aggressively over his arms once he’d settled, the points of contact creating an almost scalding friction. “Never mind, you can tell me later. If this was you Bigfoot hunting, I’m going to be really pissed.” He didn’t sound pissed. He sounded upset.

Stern had the bleary sensation of time stuttering, the world seeming to fade in and out of being at points he couldn’t quite connect. He thought he felt arms around him at one point. He had the vague recollection of Barclay staring anxiously out at the road, insisting someone would be by any minute. “I shouldn’t move you too much if I can help it,” he said. That was okay. Stern didn’t really feel like moving.

But when time swam back into being, Stern felt his body rocking slightly, jostled with the sensation of being carried at a slow, careful pace. Whatever his face was pressed up against was warm and soft and tickled his nose. He buried his cheek against it, felt the walking pause, and then resume. Something strong and solid seemed to pull tighter against him.

**Date:** ██████

 **Mission Progress:** Limited

 **Agent Status:** Recovering

* * *

The lodge was quiet and dark and Stern’s laptop was near forgotten on the table. There was no room for it, not while Stern straddled Barclay’s lap and the two of them focused all of their attention on necking like teenagers, breathing too hard and fast and unwilling to catch their breaths.

“This is a bad idea.” It was Barclay that finally put voice to the thought, pulling back long and far enough to establish eye contact.

“I know,” he said, but Barclay’s hands were still resting on his hips. Stern didn’t quite lean in, but he must have tilted his head a little, made just enough of a gesture. When Barclay surged up to kiss him again, the hands moved up his back, bunching up the fabric of his jacket in a way that was surely going to crease. And for some reason, the thought that he was going to have to iron his suit later because Barclay was kissing him now made a smile spread helplessly across his mouth.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. I’m just happy.”

**Date:** ██████

 **Mission Progress:** Limited

 **Agent Status:** Content

* * *

Stern hardly felt like he had time to lace up his shoes, but he took the time to do it anyway. Shiny patent leather – totally inappropriate for the environment and he longed for the rugged hiking boots he’d bought in town the other month. Necessary for the occasion – they completed the look. He needed it today.

People were entering the forest in small clusters and groups. None of them came alone. Almost all of them were armed. He knew what they were coming for – he’d seen Ned’s broadcast as clearly as the rest of them, seated in the lounge area of Amnesty Lodge, watching the stricken, frightened looks on the other residents’ faces. Not long ago, he’d been worried about a murder and gang violence and scared, grieving young folk coming up to the lodge to throw their weight around for unclear purpose. He’d never predicted this.

“You’re not going out there, are you?” Barclay was a pale, ghost-like presence at the end of the hall, fingers running over his hempen bracelet over and over in what might have been a soothing gesture. Stern’s stomach did a harsh, uncomfortable flip. The world was falling apart, crumbling away beneath his feet, and he was grasping at air in a vain attempt to hold everything together.

“I have to,” he said. “The way everyone’s riled up, somebody’s bound to get hurt.”

“You could get hurt.”

“I won’t.”

“You could.” Barclay’s eyes darted around, jittery, unwilling to dwell on Stern’s face. His hand seized around his wrist, covering the bracelet completely. “Listen, we need to talk. Like big talk. Right now.” Stern’s heart leapt into his throat. Any other time…

“We will,” he said, moving to grip Barclay by the shoulders, making him blink at him, wide and owl-like. “After this is over, I promise. Whatever you want to say, I’ll listen.” And then, because he couldn’t stand to watch the way that Barclay seemed to deflate, seemed to shrink in on himself, he slid his hands to wind in the front of Barlcay’s shirt and kissed him. Hard. It was flattering how immediately Barclay kissed him back and humbling how tightly Barclay’s hands came to clutch at his back. Even when they separated, Stern couldn’t bring himself to do much more than stand there, holding and being held in turn, resting their foreheads together for a long moment. “It’s going to be okay. _We’re_ going to be okay. I promise.”

He intended to follow through.

**Date:** ██████

 **Mission Progress:** Substantial

 **Agent Status:** Resolute


End file.
